


Who Prays Over Us When We Sleep?

by umbrellaofshame



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Disturbing Themes, M/M, Murder, basically just a peek into Hannibal's mind, could be seen as pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellaofshame/pseuds/umbrellaofshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will falls asleep in Hannibal's office. Hannibal ponders what a fascinating case study he makes. And thinks about eating him. As you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Prays Over Us When We Sleep?

Hannibal turns mid-way through a subtle contemplation of the inner workings of a killer’s mind to find Will has fallen asleep. Slumped inelegantly in the leather chair, face crushed against his shoulder, his neck uncomfortably crooked. He has come a long way from the restless pacing and wary, snappish retorts of their first meetings. Hannibal wonders if this indicates trust, or merely exhaustion. Almost certainly a mix of the two. But the fact that Will feels safe enough to let his guard down in this way is interesting. Amusing.

 

            Hannibal retires to his desk briefly, politely checking his appointment book, to give Will a chance either to jolt awake or to settle further. When after twelve minutes Will has not stirred, he stands and walks softly to his chair. His light tread has served him well in the past ( _just the right amount of pressure upon her windpipe – he has learnt to be careful_ ).

 

            Up close, Hannibal can more closely examine the dark circles beneath Will’s eyes, the soft rise-and-fall of his chest. If he leans forward a little, he can see the pores dotting Will’s skin. Fascinating, that he can get this close without Will startling like a skittish animal. He must be more wrung-out by this case than Hannibal had previously thought. He takes the opportunity to inhale lightly, assessing the progress of the encephalitis like a wine connoisseur considering the bouquet of a glass. The smell of it – the heat – is growing. Hannibal permits the left side of his mouth to twitch upwards. Really, Will is a compelling case study. Even before the sleepwalking, and hallucinations, his empathy made him an intriguing enigma. Now, he is an experiment, a unique opportunity for observation and study. Rarely has one man held his attention for so long.

 

            Other people ( _sheep_ ) are dull. The way their unintelligent eyes regard him, whether pleading, authoritative, or desperate ( _please, oh please don’t hurt me, I’ll do anything_ ). They don’t _see_ him… until it’s too late. No, their petty anxieties and troubles hold no allure for Hannibal. He can read Jack’s worries like a book and they bore him. Far more interesting to see their eyes in death.  The facial expressions have a running theme – terror, or surprise, or accusation. Hannibal enjoys them all.  And then, of course, once they are dead ( _limbs cold and heavy, skin waxy, the delicate purpling of the lips and fingertips),_ they can surpass themselves. When they were alive, when they were _human_   - they were shaped by their own concerns and desires. Petty. Selfish. Hannibal will shape them differently, beautifully. Their organs for pâté, their muscle tissue for fine cuts of fillet, the flesh from their bones for stews or soups. Choice fragments for towers of hand-crafted appetisers. And what is even better is that now their purposeless flesh will serve a purpose – it will nourish, it will impress, it will influence, more than it ever could do while navigated by their pedestrian, unimaginative brains. It is beautiful, somehow, that despite the rudeness, the inanity of so much of the population, that they are all fundamentally the same, once their skin is peeled back. Hannibal enjoys feeding people. The warm curl of satisfaction below his ribs when Jack compliments his cooking, completely oblivious. It is not just the feeling of superiority (that, naturally, is guaranteed). He feels like a master, like a benevolent god, feeding his children, his ignorant disciples.

 

            Maybe one day, he’ll kill Jack. The man irritates him more than he would usually allow.  He lacks finesse, despite his intelligence. His dealings with Will are insensitive ( _Alana thinks Hannibal will act as a safeguard, oh the irony_ ). His compliments are sincere, but marred by his simplicity, the lack of a _challenge_. Hannibal could cut him open slowly, eye-to-eye, part involuntarily quivering skin with cold steel, watch the realisation spread across that solid, commanding face. That would be satisfying. But not yet. Because irksome though Jack can be, he does have some redeeming qualities. Hannibal enjoys prying into his brain, peeking at the insecurities and fears beneath his façade. The conversation about Miriam Lass was especially sweet. But, more importantly, he brought him Will.

 

            Will is an exception in so many ways. It is his mind Hannibal appreciates most of all, of course, but  something about the dichotomy of his razor-sharp intellect and the soft messy curls and ridiculous fashion sense appeals to him too. He had thought of dressing Will in suits – sleek, sharp lines, expensive, but not ostentatiously so – but somehow he prefers the checked shirts and ill-fitting jackets. Will’s mind is formidable, and the fact that he hides it so well amuses Hannibal. The man has a near photographic memory, and his powers of empathy are like nothing any psychiatrist will ever see in his career. He fears becoming a killer, he can understand them too well; he understands _Hannibal_ too well. The taste of that thought is sharp and satisfying on his tongue.

 

            He is not like the others. Hannibal has thought about killing him too, of course. He could do it now, as Will sleeps, soft, vulnerable, as trusting as he ever gets. Clamp one strong ruthless hand over Will’s mouth and straddle him to impede his struggles, so he wouldn’t thrash out of the chair. Or take a knife (he has one in his desk drawer that would suffice), and draw a gentle but insistent line across Will’s throat, nicking the jugular, soaking his neck and chest in a scarlet sheet before Will even stirred. He might die without waking at all… though that would stifle the pleasure of it. He would want to see the realisation in Will’s eyes, even more strongly than he would want to see it in Jack’s. To have him die, and never know… Unthinkable. Hannibal needs to see the understanding flicker in Will’s eyes, to see the sudden knowledge of the truth overcome Will’s shaky trust in him. He has thought of eating him, too. The heavy scent of frying meat in a pan, the elegantly crafted garnish. Which wine he would serve. He would not know whether to dine alone, however. To consume him alone would be decadent, intimate. Just himself and Will, with nothing to distract from the memory of the panic in Will’s eyes. But really, Will would deserve a dinner party. He could invite Jack, Alana, other members of the unit. It would be only a few days after Will’s disappearance.  He would suggest it as a venue to regroup, to consider possible solutions ( _plant deeper the suggestions of Will’s instability_ ). Jack would agree promptly. Perhaps their worry for Will might originally mask their enjoyment of the evening, but gradually the food and wine would relax them. He can see it now, the solemn toast he would make. “To Will’s safe return.” Their murmured agreement, the chink of cutlery on china. Poetry.

 

            Yes, he craves it, sometimes. But Will is far more interesting kept alive. It is not only his understanding of killers that draws Hannibal to him, or even the promise of further intrigue that the encephalitis gifts. It is the fear, the darkness, that lurks beneath – the fissures in his mind. Hannibal could pull open his skull, dig manicured nails into the fault lines and pry up the pieces, leaving Will soft and vulnerable underneath. He wants to see that darkness. For others, Hannibal’s conversion of their dead flesh into art is the best that they can hope for. But though his meals are no doubt the work of a master craftsman, he has different, better plans for Will. To sculpt a no-longer-living body takes little skill. To sculpt the mind of a living, breathing being is more difficult. Hannibal would mould him like heavy, moist clay on a potter’s wheel, a mere touch enough to change the shape utterly – to elevate it to beauty, or to cause its inherent instability to spin out of control, tumbling from the wheel completely. The latter would be simple. It would be scarcely more difficult than Hannibal’s normal method of breaking a person ( _he would saw through Will’s thigh bones for easier storage, snap each of his fingers, keep his eyes open so he could watch, even in death_ ).  But to truly appreciate Will Graham, Hannibal will have to take time and effort.

 

            For all his fears and anxieties, Will is far from becoming a killer. The frozen terror in his eyes when Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ body fell before him, his shaking hands. But it could be done, Hannibal knows it. The vulnerable shift of Will’s head, the broken, whispered admission. _“I liked killing him.”_ The frightened quiver of his jaw, his shuddering exhale begging Hannibal to help him. He wants to see Will covered in another man’s blood, but this time without the contamination of his fear. To convert him utterly to Hannibal’s vision would be nigh impossible, but wherever his sculpting takes him, the result will be fascinating. He would not seek to replicate himself; that would be tedious. To guide Will’s own interpretation, his own vision of how to bring death, would be the alluring element. He does not care _how_ Will Graham is broken, he only wishes to see it done.

           

            Hannibal allows his lips to spread in a brief smile, and then reaches out a warm, paternal hand to wake Will from his rest.

**Author's Note:**

> (not beta-read, and my first fic in a very long while, more of a thought exercise than anything. Hope you enjoyed!)


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